


Don't Cover Your Eyes

by alicekittridge



Series: Moments In Time [5]
Category: The Haunting of Bly Manor (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, More than a teaspoon of angst, POV Second Person, Past Tense, Present Tense, Sexual Content, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28189485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicekittridge/pseuds/alicekittridge
Summary: It had started so well.
Relationships: Dani Clayton/Jamie
Series: Moments In Time [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982450
Comments: 5
Kudos: 73





	Don't Cover Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a Christmas fic. If you squint a little bit. It's not as cheery as a Christmas fic should be, and I'm really sorry about that. But the beginning should make up for it, I hope. 
> 
> Takes place in the winter after we see the scene of Dani seeing Viola's reflection in The Leafling's door. 
> 
> \--  
> Rated E because the sexual content was a little more descriptive and I thought an M was too tame. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading xx

**I** t had started so well.

You’d woken to silver skies and white background—snow piled on rooftops and sidewalks, making the town look like something one might find on a Christmas card—and the soft warmth of Jamie’s slumbering embrace. You lay there for a while, taking in both, wondering, once again, how luck managed to be this kind. It was rare that Jamie slept in. She was the early riser, the one who greeted the sun with two words rather than a groan, but the times she missed it altogether, you were content to watch her doze until, summoned by the intensity of your gaze, you guessed, her eyes cracked open and she said, around a small smile, “G’mornin’ Poppins,” north England accent always thicker when drunk with sleep. Eventually you moved, shuffling carefully from her grip, throwing on a floral housecoat to make coffee preparations, disregarding the carefully written instructions Jamie had placed by the pot as a half-joke. You’d make it the way you liked it. She could always make her own, like she did with the tea.

There was no possibility of opening The Leafling that morning, given the amount of snow. You were trapped indoors for the time being, but it seemed to be a blessing. Flowers were not a popular thing in winter, yet there were still anniversaries and birthdays and weddings and funerals to arrange for anyway, and lately there were a surprising amount of them all. As you stood by the kitchen window and sipped your milky coffee, you thought of carving the time into something that catered to you both. The further blessing was the Lady, usually a quiet presence inside you, not unlike an oncoming migraine, was dormant.

A floorboard creaked. You turned away from the window and there stood Jamie, rubbing sleep from her eyes, a delightful mess in her oversized men’s plaid pyjamas and morning hair.

“Make enough for two?” she asked around a yawn.

“Nope,” you said, popping the _p._

“Good.”

“You need to learn to like coffee.”

“If God told me it was an order, I’d tell Him to bugger off.”

She kissed your cheek. Said against your skin, “Lotta snow out there.”

“Yeah,” you said, “I was… thinking of opening late today.”

Jamie put the kettle on. She fished a bag of Earl Grey from the cupboard, an early Christmas present from Owen, shipped all the way from England. “Yeah?”

“It’s not like we can get there easily.”

“We walk to work, love.” She glanced at you over her teamaking, pausing, noticing the look on your face. She smiled a little. “Are you up to somethin’?”

“No.”

“Hmm.”

You conceded, sighing, taking her hand when the distance between you was closed. “We’ve been flooded,” you said, “and we’re dancing around each other because we’re tired and I just… want to be with you.”

She raised your hand to her mouth and kissed it. Warmth built, not entirely because the radiators were on a higher setting than they’d been the past two weeks. Taking it as a cue, you leaned and kissed her mouth, pressing lightly, giving Jamie time to back out, uncaring that she tasted like slumber. Hands found your face, pulling you deeper. You shared a sigh. Admitting without words that you’d missed each other.

“What about the tea?” you said when she pressed you against the counter.

“Fuck the tea.”

You laughed. It was another of _those_ mornings, then. You were pliant when Jamie led you by the hand back to bed. The sheets were half-warm from her late rise, smelling faintly of detergent and bath soap.

Jamie fell back and you followed, leaning over her, legs astride her waist.

“Hey,” you said.

“Hey yourself.”

Lips meeting again. You pulled back and asked quietly, “Is this okay?”

Jamie nodded. Her eyes were darker now, filled with the same love you’ve seen in them for months, accompanied by lust. You knew the different looks, what they all meant. There were ones for when she wanted nothing more than to hold you, others for when she wanted fast and desperate, and more for when she wanted drawn out and aching. This one, however, was one that said _Get out of your clothes_ and _I’ll take what you give._

So you pulled your shirt over your head, delighting in the way she took in your bare chest, and got to work on the buttons holding Jamie’s shirt together. She helped you get it off, throwing it clumsily over the side of the bed, and quickly shucked the matching pants down her legs. You bent and kissed her lips first, slow, syrupy kisses, filled with sighs, and then migrated to newly exposed skin. You knew what it felt like after kissing it for almost six years. You knew what actions made her hips jerk into yours. Yet still it felt like a marvel every time. It felt like _I am lucky to make love to this woman._

You kissed south, singing at the unsteady rate of her breathing, growing warmer when your name tumbled from her mouth when you traced a slow line underneath her navel with your tongue. A declaration of what you wanted, but a suggestion, too. Jamie reached down and cupped your face in a gentle, clammy hand, thumb tracing the apple of your cheek. Permission.

“I missed you,” you murmured, turning slightly to pepper a kiss against the tender inside of her wrist.

“Missed you too,” Jamie breathed.

And you continued from where you left off, kissing further south, settling between parted knees and leaning to taste between them.

The hand that had been on your face buried itself in your hair. “Oh, Christ.” It didn’t tug. That was more you, because it was something Jamie liked, though she wouldn’t admit it with words.

You kept it leisurely, her hips following the pace, enchanted by the scene playing out above your head—closed eyes, mouth moving with shallow breathing and declarations of pleasure, flushed chest, tenser muscles. She’d done this to you a handful of times, this gentle snail’s pace, until you were taut, dangling at a precipice just out of reach. It was, you thought, lightening the touch of your tongue against her, only fair to give it back. There was all morning.

Her legs quaked beside you. The hands in your hair tightened. Her breathing was staccato as she curled into you. You held her, helped her through it, filing her gasps away for a day when you were home alone. _“Oh Christ, Dani…”_

You retraced your path upwards, the kisses messier, wetter, tasting of her. She drew you into her arms and held you while she breathed. She couldn’t see your contented smile.

“When should we open?” she asked, calmer now.

You looked over her bare arm at the alarm clock. It was nine in the morning. From what you could tell behind a layer of blinds and curtains, the snow hadn’t stopped. “Hour and a half?” you suggested.

“Right-o.”

The hot coil in your stomach demanded you travel back up and kiss her. Jamie’s sigh was long and sated.

“You taste like shite coffee,” she said.

“Like you could do any better,” you returned. She pressed on your shoulders, reversing the roles with surprising quickness, making you shout in surprise.

“Bet on it?”

You thought for a second. “A dollar.”

“Fine. One measly dollar says I make coffee as good as the French.”

You kissed her nose. “You’re on.”

Jamie’s next kiss was soft. “Tell me what you want.”

You shook your head. “Anything.”

She slid her hand into your pants. The first touch was tentative. You gasped at it. Nodded. The touches after that were sure, confident strokes. She built you up like that, backing off when you were close. She liked to hear her name fall desperately from your lips. Liked it even better when it was accompanied by “Please.”

You fell into trembling waves.

By the time you made it out the door, the snow was lighter, smaller flakes, and the temperature was biting. Your breaths steamed in the air on your walk. Snow crunched underneath your boots, the beat only slightly out of time. There weren’t many complaints about the lateness of The Leafling’s opening, save for one from a regular customer who had earned the nickname Madame Sourpuss.

“Has crabapples in her coffee, that one,” Jamie had said after the first encounter. “Probably every mornin’, if I had to guess.”

It was an effort to school yourselves into businesspeople and pretend you hadn’t, just fifteen minutes before your arrival, made love a second time against the bathroom vanity.

It had started so well. So perfectly, you wished all mornings would start off on such a perfect note. Luck, it turns out, doesn’t come in streaks, but in spurts.

The vase, a beautiful glass one blown and carved in a vintage style and tinted evergreen, slips from your hands. The crash of it against cold concrete is loud enough to wake the long-dead. Hundreds of pieces lie scattered about your feet. And in their reflective surfaces you do not see the contents of the back room.

It’s her.

It’s different. A more solid presence than when she’d been awake before, as if the daze of long slumber has finally worn off and she’s impatient to begin her day. Before, you weren’t able to see her in any surface. Now her faceless form is staring up at you. Waiting.

“Dani.”

Jamie’s hand on your shoulder, jerking you back to the world. You gasp. You’re trembling.

“I… I’m so sorry,” you say. “I was putting it on the shelf and it… slipped.” The lie burns. It tastes metallic on your tongue, even after Jamie nods and says, “’S alright. Poppy’ll make a new one.” She leaves briefly, telling whichever customer she was serving that she’ll be right back. Had an accident.

She helps you sweep up the glass. You feel the weight of her concern on your trembling hands but, knowing the answer isn’t going to happen right away, refrains from commenting.

The glass slides from the dustpan and into the bin, pealing like tiny, green bells.

Guilt follows you. It must be written on your face; Jamie’s pretty eyes keep landing on you, and the crease between her brows only deepens. She tells you, taking a break from filling out a long order sheet, “Vases are replaceable.”

“It was expensive,” you say. It’s half the reason you feel so heavy. The other half is the fact that the vase had been Jamie’s. Broken unwillingly.

“We have an accidents fund,” Jamie continues. “We’ll be all right. One wee vase isn’t enough to put us into debt.”

You nod. The reassurance is a small balm.

Jamie gives your cheek a quick kiss. She leaves the room. You hear her apologize to her customer. You make your way to the desk, sinking into the chair, feeling the full, alert weight of the Lady. If you look inward enough, you can see her, standing in her white dress.

You wonder how the hell you’ll tell this to Jamie.

“One day at a time,” you tell yourself.

One day at a time.

One day at a fucking time.

You pull a damage sheet from the top left drawer.

Jamie tells you to go home early. She’s in the middle of wrapping up a Christmas wreath. Its tags are printed and protected inside a plastic report cover. You admire her handiwork on the thing, taking in the half-moons dotted white against the deep green and the red silk ribbon serving as accents as you shrug on your coat and shoulder your bag. She knows you need time on your heavier days, and this is no exception. Still, you throw a “Sorry” over your shoulder when you leave, feeling sorrier the closer you get to your shared apartment. _It was Jamie’s,_ you think, again and again. And, _It was her._

The weight expands inside you until it’s pressing against your flesh. Wanting to break free. You can only let your purse fall off your shoulder and stumble out of your boots before collapsing onto the sofa in the parlor. It’s no light headache this time. It’s a beastly migraine. Its claws dig into your scalp and the delicate dark behind your eyes. You shut them. Even the ashy light coming from the window is too much.

Gotta get curtains for that one, you think, turning over, burying your face into the sofa’s soft back. It smells like cloth and old popcorn and mint. Jamie’s head had touched here, once, when you christened the couch by pressing her into it and laving appreciative kisses across her naked chest. The memory fades too quickly for you to hold onto it. There’s nothing left except to fight the claws.

You’re still there when Jamie gets home. Time had seeped out of you; you don’t know what the hour is or how long you’ve lain with your face against the sofa and your arms curled into your chest. You can’t open your eyes, not even when you feel Jamie crouched beside you.

“What’s goin’ on, Poppins?” she asks. Continues, when you don’t reply, “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

_I can’t._

Part of you knows Jamie won’t call you mad. She hadn’t done so when you’d confessed to seeing your dead fiancé in her greenhouse. She won’t, but there’s always the possibility of a _might._ Of a _I can’t do this._ The possibility scares you more than anything.

You manage, “I feel heavy.”

“Because of the vase?”

You nod.

“I told you ’s alright. Things break.” Gently, her chin finds its way to your shoulder. You’re filled with the smell of her: flowers, dirt, gift wrap, mint shampoo. “Frodo felt heavy when he had the Ring,” Jamie says quietly. “Almost didn’t make it up Mount Doom. But he had Sam with him, see. Someone to share the weight with.”

The words bring stinging tears. Yet you ask, “You’ve read _Lord of the Rings?_ ”

“You’d be surprised the amount of time you’ve got in prison.”

You laugh, despite it all, and open your eyes. “I never thought you were a reader,” you say.

“I told you ’bout Tamara,” she says.

You nod.

“She was the one who suggested it.”

“She did a lot of good for you.”

Jamie nods. “She did.” She takes your hand. “But so have you.”

It’s moments like these, in a long silence that passes between you, that you wish you had the words to express how grateful you are. How much you admire her. How much you love her. There’s wishing, and there’s knowing that she knows.

Jamie squeezes your hand. She asks, “What d’you want for Christmas?”

“Christmas?” you say. You’re aware of its approach but you haven’t had a single thought as to what you’d like. You’re reminded of a snowy day much like this one, when you were thirteen and sitting at Judy’s kitchen table trying to outdo Eddie with your gingerbread house. She’d asked you what you wanted for Christmas and said, after you confessed you didn’t know, around a laugh, “It doesn’t get any easier as you get older.” Then, you didn’t realize how right she was. Now, though, you truly don’t know. Your world feels complete. It doesn’t need any static objects to fill empty holes. Such a thing feels too weighty to say, so you manage, “Some socks might be nice.”

Jamie laughs. The sunshine of it fills your limbs.

She gives your cheek a second kiss. “I can do that.”

She stays crouched, letting you hold her. You say, interrupting the comfortable silence, “Thank you. So much.”

“Anytime.”

You want to tell Jamie that she makes you feel as if you don’t have to cover your eyes to life, but keep them open for every part. Because, by some miracle, there might be good to get out of it. But like everything, she seems to know this, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Written with the intent to fit some Classic Fic Lit tropes into the work. I'm not completely sure how it panned out...   
> Edited at 1 AM, so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Happy Christmas, if that's your jam xx


End file.
